


Possession

by kay_cricketed



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-24
Updated: 2011-02-24
Packaged: 2017-11-19 09:15:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/571668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kay_cricketed/pseuds/kay_cricketed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For a short while, he believes America can be his again.  But marks made to the body still can't touch the soul and England may take America without having him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Possession

_You have made it very clear_ , England thinks as he strokes the fine handwriting of America’s hair, _that you were mine only once, and never again._

In his sleep, America barely stirs at his touch. He always surrenders to his dreams hard, to the point where sometimes England wonders if he understands the difference between them and reality, so he won’t wake until morning. This time is England’s—his time to touch the defined curve of America’s cheekbones, relearn the development of his body, push the come trickling down America’s thighs back inside where England put it. He has no qualms about doing what he pleases, because these few hours are the only ones in which America is his, only his.

Even this is an illusion.

(Some things change.)

 

 

“Sometimes I don’t like the way you hold onto me,” America tells him. His voice is sex-sweet hoarse and like gravel, like something England can rub and find a pattern to. He looks at America as they twine together in the hotel bed, and he thinks about whether he should be angry.

“What, just now?”

“During. And after.” America curls up on top of the pillow, cheeks bunching like a child’s as he pouts. “It’s kind of creepy. Like you’re not looking at _me_ me at all.”

“At you you,” scoffs England. “Are you trying to be bloody difficult?”

“And you should cut your nails. Fucking stings.”

But England likes the marks. They make America seem younger, like something that can still be impressed upon.

 

 

They don’t exactly mean to sleep together, but they do. The incident involves some alcohol, a nasty brawl in the back alley, and America’s tears against England’s palms ( _he’d never believed he could bring them out, and so England had kissed him, kissed his boy, his always and forever boy_ ). Somehow it had ended twisted in England’s sheets, the old springs of his mattress squeaking as he rutted into ( _his colony_ ) the nation deep, deep enough to make America lose his faculties, his rhythm of words—staccato, hitched, beautiful.

The next world conference, America had hovered like an anxious, overgrown raccoon. He’d almost asked the same question so many times, England grew sick of it, sick of him, and gave him a furious tirade that should’ve rung his ears deaf. Instead, they had sex again, and again in the morning when the soreness was still prevalent.

The mistake has become a repeated incident.

It’s unpleasantly like an addiction, one that disturbs England but also keeps him in line; it reminds him of how he’ll reach for a cup of tea that isn’t even there as he watches the telly. Unsettling. Routine. Slightly more dangerous than tea.

America, when asked, will say: “It sure beats preparing my speech notes for tomorrow.”

England wants to hate him. He’s reasonably sure he can, once he stops loving him. But it’s not the kind of love America sometimes talks about, just before sleep drags him under ( _sometimes I can’t wait to see you again, even if you’re kinda still like a jerk_ ). It’s cloying, and restless, and ugly. He wants to put America on a shelf.

 

 

The first sight of it crumbling is when America ignores his advice during a meeting.

More than ignores, he goes against every single syllable. His reckless disregard and ignorance is enough to raise England’s hackles—but worse, he feels a tumble of burnt, overly digested emotion in his stomach. He wants to reach across the table and yank America down by his ridiculous, color-mismatched tie. His hands are shaking under the table, clenched against his thighs.

( _how dare you how dare never put me aside like that always ignoring me but you’re mine you disgusting child you’re nothing but—_ )

England breathes.

“Please don’t do that,” he whispers, only to himself.

 

 

He is a twisted, miserable old bastard.

England’s well aware of this. He just prefers to be the one pointing it out to himself. For two weeks after, he tries to be the person he wants to be—buys America dinner, tries to listen to his exasperating tales of heroic glory, kisses the love handles without mocking them. For a while, America is skeptical but glowing. He laughs more around England, lets him grab on however he pleases.

But he still isn’t England’s.

(Nothing will extinguish the gleam of independence in him. It smolders like a brand behind his eyes; it’s in everything he says and does. England could only claw it out of him in bloody gouges, and that might leave nothing behind at all.)

 

 

“England,” America chants in half-broken moans, “England, _there_ , that’s it, that’s—”

“Shut up,” he says, hoarse. He drags his fingers through America’s hair and yanks back his head, forces his throat to bare. It’s perfect. England runs his teeth over it and resists the urge to bite. Contemplates it, anyway, as he shoves America’s erection against his stomach and keeps it there, trapped, out of the way, stored like something pretty.

“Nnk! Uh! O-oh fuck, _fuck_ —”

_I could make him mine_ , thinks England. _He loves me again. He loves me._

And then America twists in his hold and looks at him, hair still caught between England’s talons, looks at him with those blue eyes like a lightning storm on the prairie, like the sky against the sails that brought him there—

 

 

Once, England had lowered his gun.

 

 

Tonight, he buries himself in America one last time, comes until he feels like he’s lost part of himself, and cries.

(Some things never change.)


End file.
